


bent over the altar

by casualbird



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Graveyard Sex, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, a whole lot of sex in a brief period of time, goth as all shit, newlyweds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26131192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird
Summary: Hubert and Mercedes make the Vestra house their home.
Relationships: Mercedes von Martritz/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 12
Kudos: 50





	bent over the altar

**Author's Note:**

> good morrow! hubie and mercie are both trans in this, and while i don't use any particular words to describe hubert's downstairs, i do use the word cock for mercedes' situation. i hope this is alright, and i'm sorry if it bothers anyone.

He’d tear Vestra Manor down, dungeon that it is, but it’s just so damned convenient. On the high streets of Enbarr, a stone’s throw from the palace in case he’s needed. Perfect for entertaining diplomats, and the secret passageways really are quite helpful when the situation calls for a little cloak-and-daggering. The torture chambers are second to none--Hubert finds that he can’t get quite the right performance out of any other set of thumbscrews.

The looming wrought-iron fence is nice, also, and Mercedes dotes on the parquet flooring, the stained glass in the foyer.

So. Sparing the expense of demolishing the place, of scorching the accursed earth it stands upon, the newlyweds spare no effort in making it their own.

A considerable proportion of this is carried out in concert with a fleet of interior decorators--the imperious portraits are condemned, as well as the gloomy damask, and a tidy kitchen garden is installed out back. Their guests crow--so much airier now, and they love what’s been done with the drawing room.

Mercedes will squeeze his hand, and smile, and they will both know that this isn’t the _half_ of it. Hubert isn’t a pious man, but he supposes it’s an apt analogy that the place is rife with demons, specters squirming through the rooms they must reconquer.

It was his wife’s idea, precious as she is. When he showed her, halting, into the solar, when she watched his spine sieze as though he’d entered enemy territory--she’d hummed, dragging a gloved finger over the late Lord Vestra’s desk and inspecting the dust she’d brought up.

“This is your house,” she’d told him, in that way of hers. Sweet, without sacrificing a certain directness. And then, twisting her wedding ring, “I suppose it’s my house, too. And--” a coy smile, a little scrunching of her nose--”that means we should make it all our own! ”

Hubert had had to ask her just _what_ she was insinuating, and he rather liked her response. They left the room in glorious dishabille, snickering wicked, not the least concerned with the grey smear across Mercedes’ ruffled front, the imprint of her breasts, her belly, her palms they’d left in the dust.

_Isn’t it wonderful,_ she asked that evening, _the way that marriage sparks such lovely new traditions?_

Hubert, as per usual, found himself quite in accord with his wife.

When next they had a sliver of time to spare, they spent it christening the dining room--Mercedes giggled _open wide_ as she guided his mouth gently around her cock. Following that, there was the library, the carriage house, the wine cellar. Most exhausting was the master suite, when Mercedes had him thrice in an hour--the closet, the bedroom proper, the en-suite. He looked up at her, after, as she dabbed his face with a rosewatered rag, and for all her dishevelled glory couldn’t recollect what he’d planned to say.

No matter--it probably followed the lines of _you are dazzling_ or _I adore you_ or _drawing room next_ and these were all things of which Mercedes was preciously, perfectly aware.

She kissed his nose, and they carried on. It was only a scant handful of months before the house appeared transformed, more a home than Hubert had ever seen it. _Damn the lot of you,_ he’d mutter to his chimera of ancestors, _this is_ my house _now._

There was just the one thing left to do. Well, that and the new tapestries had been delayed, but renovating was a marathon, not a sprint, and it couldn’t be helped. Regardless--on a watercolored summer twilight, Hubert caught his sweet wife by the hand, brought her grinning out the back door.

“Darling,” he murmured, lips brushing the space beneath her ear “can you get up on the mausoleum by yourself, or shall I fetch a stepladder?” She was, of course, quite capable--it was Hubert that needed some assistance, arrested as he was by the image of her perched blithely at the top, the hem of her nightdress swishing as she idly kicked her legs.

He did make it eventually, though, and she kissed him firm and thorough, caught him up between cold granite and her own irrepressible softness. Helped him on with his harness, his cock, even though he didn’t strictly need it. Just because she was delightful, just because she was herself, just because she knew, behind all her girlish gentility, the soul-deep pleasure, the _necessity_ of saying _fuck the world._

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to mary shelley, who did in fact lose her virginity atop her mother's grave! and thanks to father john misty--the title comes from 'honeybear.' and thanks to you, gentle reader! i hope you enjoyed this!
> 
> comments and kudos make me weep for joy, and you are as always invited to join me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles) if you feel so inclined.
> 
> i bid you good day!


End file.
